


Flash Flooding

by divisionten



Category: Ratchet & Clank
Genre: Gen, Natural Disasters, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divisionten/pseuds/divisionten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the annual Kyzil floods go awry, it's up to Ratchet and Qwark to do what they can. Wait... what? Qwark? Really? Are you sure I'm reading this correctly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! This story was made in collaboration with wrenchmxster from Tumblr. We've been doing some really cool RP over there, so follow us (my names over there are qwarkforprez3020 and askalombax) This is one of THREE stories we are writing together in RP. I've done a bit of cleanup to make them more prose and less RP text style, but minimally. Would peiple prefer the original format or the cleaned up version, or don't care?
> 
> Anyway, here's Flash Flooding. Chapters will come out as the two of us write enough content to warrant a full chapter entry.

_‘Oh, **great**. A flash flood warning_.’

Ratchet cupped his head in his hands, rubbing his temple irritably. It was the worst possible time; Clank had gone running an errand for Sigmund, taking Aphelion with him. Not that Ratchet had any plans to flee; he’d always helped build the dams and levees whenever Kyzil had its short but brutal rainy season. But no ship meant he was cut off from his personal means for search and rescue, or just a way to move around supplies- at least until low altitude flying became impossible.

Veldin storms could be **_fierce_**.

Ratchet tossed out a quick distress beacon on his usual frequencies. Maybe if Talwyn wasn’t busy, she **_might_** be able to teleport over some supplies at the very least? They didn’t have much time. While storms were to be expected this time of year, it was usually only a few hours before- due to winds whipping up around the crags- that an accurate assessment of the damage could be made. Most of the time, the existing structures were built to handle the annual floods, so outside aid was rarely actually needed.

When Ratchet’s comms did sound, though, it wasn’t who he expected in the slightest.

Heck, even **_Nefarious_** would have been less of a shock than the voice he heard on the other end of the line.

“Meridian City will be teleporting supplies shortly,” Captain- no, Ratchet irritably reminded himself- **_President_** Qwark boomed happily on the other end of the line, before he began babbling. “Also, my aides have instructed that the remaining copies of “Body: By Qwark” could be used as sandbag material. Why would they want to get rid of so many copies? My book is a bestseller!”

 _‘A bestseller where? Qwark’s Presidential Compound?’_ Ratchet groaned internally, before cutting off the gargantuan idiot.

“Great. We’ll need all the sandbags we can get. I’m going to help the town put up the storm barrier. You go do…uh, whatever it is Presidents do when there’s a flash flood. Unless you want to help us haul some sandbags; you’ve got the arms for it.” Ratchet was glad he’d only turned on voice, rubbing his temples harder. The supplies would be useful, sure, but if Qwark even offered to step foot on Veldin, it would turn a potentially deadly flood into a media circus.

* * *

Qwark, meanwhile, in his cushy Presidential suite in Meridian City, billions of light-years away, considered briefly chickening out, but who was he kidding? It’s **_water_**. Qwark had an O2 mask and could swim. It may not be his voting bloc, but Solana was his home, too. And _\- if Ratchet had overheard his thoughts at the moment, he might have had a conniption, but-_ it would also make for an excellent photo opportunity and press.

Qwark **_could_** be altruistic. Especially if it helped boost his ego and/or ratings in the process, not even considering the fact that Ratchet’s suggestion was partially just to get Qwark off his back.

“You’ve got it, Cadet! I’ll be readying the Phoenix II for FTL warp. I’ll be there within the hour.”

Ratchet sounded a little surprised on the other end of the line, but after a moment of what could only be a strange half- gurgle, he stated, “Meet me outside of Kyzil in the F-sector. The other villages are big enough to look out for themselves.”

Ratchet himself looked out at the sky, darkening rapidly, grabbing some rain boots and an O2 mask in case things get ugly. He dashed off to the closest village to start slinging a few sandbags around.

By the time Ratchet climbed down from his garage to the village at the base of the mesa, it was already raining, and raining **_hard_** , so there wasn’t much time.

 


	2. The Waters Rise

Qwark pulled the skiff out from the Phoenix, and contemplated a land. The ground around Kyzil, unfortunately, had already gotten too muddy, and, in the few places it was safe, looked prone to landslides.

Qwark fitted on his O2 mask and took a deep breath, before hitting the eject-and-return button, flying out of the cockpit, and screaming his head off.

He spread his body wide, controlling his descent, pulling the ripcord on his chute at the best moment before rolling and landing in the mud.

“So much for photo ops,” he grumbled, and righted himself, already covered in red mud from the landing.

Qwark noticed a series of flares; the teleported crates had already landed on the plateau. He trudged through what had once been cracked and dry desert, now quickly turning to sludge, hoping to get to more stable ground before the whole mesa turned to a soupy quicksand mess.

Thankfully, he’d spent enough time in the Florana swamp to know how to slog through wet mud.

“It’s just a mud facial… just a mud facial… in my underwear,” he muttered audibly, as he trudged to civilization.

Within a few more minutes, Qwark made his way to the signal flares, with not a moment to spare. He saw Ratchet instructing the Velldin locals in putting up dams and levees, and most of them were not going to hold when the torrents finally crashed down from the mountain, and the blue crate- the one containing the medicine and rations- was still in the potential path. Over the steadily increasing winds, Qwark yelled as loud as he was able.

“Ratchet! I’ll help with sandbags in a minute. I need to move these supplies to a better location, or they’re going to get washed away the minute the floods and mudslides start. Do you have a barricade?”

* * *

The Sheriff was really the one coordinating the efforts to get the levees up. Ratchet’s just been dashing from one site to another, helping with the heavy lifting where he can, and taking out any obstacles like stubborn rocks or aggressive toads with a few well-placed whacks of the wrench. It’s as tough as any battle he’s ever been in, with the rain and mud slowing him down, and the constant pressure of getting the defenses up before it’s too late.

He did see when the supplies touched down, but so far, the volunteers have been able to spare nobody to get them safety. And when he sees Qwark approaching, he’s the only one with ears good enough to pick his voice up. Honestly, he’d really rather have Qwark doing some lifting on the front lines – there are too few volunteers as most of the villagers have already sought shelter or been evacuated. But then again, Qwark is right; those crates won’t be any good if the water carries them away into the canyons.

“Get them to the Planetary Defense Center,” he bellows. “And shelter there, if you can’t make it back here in time.”

* * *

 

Qwark nodded, over the din. He remembered where the PDC was; not too far, and well secure. The place should even have some land skiffs for use during mudslides (if it was like the one on Florana, at least), so as long as visibility wasn’t shot to heck, he did have a way back that would be tenable.

Qwark was an idiot, but he was well versed in self-survival. And right now, damn did he need it.

With a mighty groan, Qwark hefted the entire crate over his shoulder, and began slogging up towards the center.

Twenty minutes local later, and Qwark deposited the crate with a large group of Veldinite elderly and children seeking shelter in the main hall, tents set up along the open pathways and children giggling that they had off from school.

Qwark looked among them. Most would not be returning to standing houses. He remembered that, and sighed as he readied himself for the torrent he’d face going back out in the wet and cold.

With a final reminder about some of the food meant for Ratchet mixed with the rest of the supplies, Qwark took a stim pack to wake himself up, slapped himself on the knee to psyche himself for the work ahead, and took a skiff from the storage room in the basement.

Qwark slipped and slid, hanging on for dear life, remembering the kids back in the safe haven as he pushed the skiff harder. He just needed to get back to Ratchet and start holding the line.

People were depending on him.

**_It felt good to be needed._ **

* * *

 

Back at the barricade, the ground – which started as dry sand and turned into slippery mud – was now a fast, ankle-deep current of water traveling from the mountains down toward the canyons. The volunteers were getting scared, and careless. When a small span of the dam caves in at the bottom, there’s such panic and disorganization that what could have been a small, easily-patched hole, grows and a whole section collapses and is washed away before either the Sheriff or Ratchet knew what happened. Although incomplete, the dam was already holding a lot of water back, but now that it started to cave in, the water rose swiftly.

Already some of the villagers are fleeing. The few that gallantly stay behind don’t have a chance in hell of rebuilding in time, and soon enough the Sheriff gives up. “We did our best, folks. Get to your shelters while you still can.”

Ratchet, for once, is at a loss. He stood there with a sandbag still hoisted over his shoulder, watching the rest of the volunteers flee for their lives. The water splashed and swirled around him, almost up to his knees, and another section of the half-finished dam caved in.

He snaps out of it, drops the sandbag, and ran. It’s too late to get back to the garage, and he’s out range of Aphelion’s radio. Half-running, half-wading as he struck out for higher ground, he hoped that Qwark at least had the sense to stay at the PDC, before he took a twisted step, feeling a horrible **_squelch_** , as his leg sunk down far deeper than it should have.

 _‘Well, this **blows** ,’_ Ratchet complained to himself.

It’s not Ratchet’s first encounter with quicksand, it’s not even his first encounter with quicksand during a Veldinite desert storm. But it is probably the worst. And the fastest; he’d never sunk up to his waist this quickly.

He took several deep, calming breaths, ducked his muzzle into his O2 mask, and looked at his options. No Clank to help him out, his wrench is too small to use for balance, and there’s no tree or building nearby that he could attach his kinetic tether to. Looks like he’ll have to do it the hard way. With another deep breath, he leaned backward, trying to roll on his back so he can float and carefully pull his legs free. But the tides from the mountains are coming fast, and if he doesn’t get unstuck before then – well? His limbs start to feel jittery and he nervously clenched his fists and heaved a sigh through his teeth.

This is the worst day **_ever_**.


	3. Gratitude

Qwark was almost at the barricade when he finally saw the damage of the storm; he couldn’t power down to check for survivors, the skiff would sink if it slowed down too much. He just had to hope the remaining volunteers had already-

He spied Ratchet, waist high and stuck in the mud, now quicksand. Ratchet had already put on his O2 mask, thankfully, but if Ratchet got suck there and the mud dried…

It would be like getting trapped in concrete. Qwark had seen it firsthand on Florana; heck, it had been how he’d caught most of his food back then. Why hunt when the very earth could do it **_for_** you?

Qwark weighed his options. He couldn’t circle around Ratchet slow enough to hoist the Lombax out without loosing the skiff, but he could wade in the quicksand safely on his own.

Ah well, there went a few thousand bolts as Qwark hit the killswitch and jumped off, not even bothering to watch as the speeder was slowly eaten by the bubbling mud.

“Ratchet, if you can hear me, and you’d better with those ears of yours, stop moving. The more you struggle, the faster you sink.”

Ratchet’s ears perk up as Qwark’s voice echoes over the roar of the wind, and he lifted his head just in time to see the big lug hopping right out of his skiff, which promptly sunk into the quicksand. **_Crap_**! Ratchet considered he could have saved it with his tether if he just had a few more seconds.

Qwark didn’t await a reply. He couldn't remember the calculations about downward pressure or fluid dynamics, but he did remember something about a Jimmy Neutron’s law of force. With a mighty groan, he bent forward and ripped Ratchet from the mud, a squelch as Ratchet was pulled free, his rainboots still stuck as Qwark trudged up yet again for the PDC.

Ratchet had barely time to grab his wrench and save it from a watery grave before he was slung, shivering, gasping and soaked, over Qwark’s shoulder like a damsel just liberated from distress. Ratchet didn’t even seem to want to struggle; normally he hated being lifted clear in the air from one of Qwark’s bear hugs. It’s not fun being carried, but if it puts more distance between him and that quicksand, he’d allow it.

“First thing we do when we get you to the center- a shower. You smell like a drowned rat,” Qwark shouted over the howl of the tempest as the waters rose around him. Of course he was going to waste some of his energy chastising Ratchet- if the fuzzball died on him, he’d be up the proverbial creek without a paddle the next time some Cthulu-esque monster came knocking on his door (sadly a regular occurrence). Ratchet wasn’t going down from a stupid rainstorm. Qwark held the shivering wet Lombax a little tighter, pushing on ahead.

“We’ll deal with reconstruction after everything settles, yeah, Cadet?”

“Hey, you’re no bed of roses yourself,” Ratchet retorts. Qwark’s right about one thing, though: Everything else can wait until the storm has passed and the water goes down.

* * *

 

What took Qwark twenty minutes the last time around ran closer to an hour this time. The wind was harsh, the rain a mess, and visibility was nonexistent. Qwark shifted Ratchet from a shoulder to a fireman’s carry to keep Ratchet- a desert creature by evolution and not designed for prolonged cold or wet- from losing any more body heat, curling him close to his heart for warmth and bending forward to shield Ratchet (and himself) from the wind.

At any other time, Ratchet would object to being carried around. But it was more practical for now, since Qwark’s strides are naturally longer, and on the ground, he would just hold the guy back. The sharp wind and pounding rain are absolute murder for him, Qwark’s right about that. He’s shivering so much he probably couldn’t walk right now anyway.

Qwark thanked Orvus for their O2 masks- it kept the wind and rain directly off his face while helping him breathe evenly, and he figured Ratchet would have been unconscious right now without his own.

Forgetting about everything but trudging one foot in front of the other, Qwark made his way back to safety, depositing Ratchet at the entry before going inside; the Planetary Defense Center couldn’t have appeared through the haze of rain soon enough.

“Can you walk? Let’s… find a shower and some hot food. I need to evacuate about twenty pounds of mud from the ol’ heroic tighty-currently-not-so-whities,” Qwark asked, uncharacteristically compassionate, mainly from sheer exhaustion.

When Qwark set Ratchet down inside the shelter, he was chilled to the bone, a little unsteady on his feet, and his ears were ringing from the howl of the wind and the rain – but other than that, he’s okay.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Qwark.”

He gave the superhero a tired, appreciative wave, and wanders farther into the center. If you couldn’t tell by looking outside, you could tell this is a hell of a storm just by how packed the place is. It’s never been this crowded during a flash flood before. He had to wait in line for a shower, of course. But once he’s had that and a hot meal, he feels a hundred times better, and curls up near a heating vent, where it’s not exactly cozy, but definitely warm. He wraps his tail around himself and is just seconds away from drifting off into a nap when an unnerving thought wakes him back up: Is Qwark going to tell the media about this quicksand thing?

* * *

 

Qwark sighed, and sloughed himself and his dripping muddy everything into the shower line. This was supposed to be simple. Easy. Get some supplies in order, use his freakishly Herculean strength to hurl around some sandbags where they needed to be, smile for some cameras (especially if he could convince Ratchet or Clank to be in the photos with him, and be off before he could say ‘cyclo-monkey’s my uncle’ (which, due to Qwarl’s upbringing, was surprisingly true).

But no. Here he was, cold, tired, worn out… He’d need at least a week on Pokitaru after this was all over. He jolted awake when a squat Veldin man pushed a shower key into his hands, and he accepted the towel and soap from the attendant without fuss. No shampoo or conditioner; Veldinites were lizards and didn’t exactly have hair.

Qwark stepped into the shower, thankfully warm from the water tanks circulating through the roof system and naturally heated by Veldin’s sun and volcanic activity. Qwark shucked off his own jumpsuit and underwear, cleaning it as best he could. The soap was fine on his skin, but hard enough on the fabric. How Ratchet even managed to shower with his fur and no shampoo was beyond him. Eventually he gave up and hoped the PDC had spare clothing in his size, pressing the call button for his request.

Feeling utterly naked without his suit, he handed it off to volunteers washing clothes, tagging it (though, with his build, it was obvious who owned the suit). Qwark absentmindedly touched the bald spot on his head, and the bright red ring of remaining hair normally well hidden; joining the line for food.

Nobody batted an eye at Qwark, or acknowledged him any more than any of the others seeking shelter, but Qwark himself felt miserably out of place. At least the yellow scrubs fit- they were probably prison uniforms from the detention wing in the PDC. Considering the entire center was filled with only Veldin natives, prison clothing was likely all they had for someone so much larger than they.

To go from the Presidential compound the day before, to a prisoner’s outfit, shoved a tray of thin looking stew and a ration block…

And yet, somehow, Qwark felt content, but couldn’t put a finger on **_why_**.

Qwark balanced his tray and scanned for Ratchet, an easy enough task as he also wore bright yellow scrubs, a hole in the back slashed open for his tail. He was curled up over a heating vent, fur parted at awkward angles and mussed, probably from the soap and no access to a brush. Qwark could tell the Lombax was attempting to rest, but the coughing racking his tiny frame was clearly making it difficult. Even with the O2 mask, Ratchet inhaled enough water to make him a little sick, because instead of settling down for the nicest nap you can hope for when sheltering from a storm, he just laid there hacking his lungs up for a while. As if he weren’t tired enough. 

“You were pretty brave out there, Ratchet.”

Qwark doubled over at hearing his own voice, hoarse from the adrenaline rush of a slog through the torrent. Ratchet didn’t even open his eyes to look at him (and his horrific excuse of a carrot top); he just nodded and curled up tighter, even though he was quite stunned: Did Captain Qwark just praise his bravery? Like, actually compliment him without immediately congratulating himself on his own superior machismo? He must really be wiped out. And he ought to be, after all he’s done for the plateau, which is honestly a lot more than Ratchet expected from him. When he’s more awake, he’ll have to thank him. 

“Watch my food. I’ll go get you a stim pack and something to settle that cough.”

Qwark set his tray in front of Ratchet, making sure there wasn’t any trash left behind.

“Oh, no thanks, I should be – ” Qwark leaves just as Ratchet is faintly protesting the medical supplies. There are hundreds of people here who could probably use them a lot more. He’s had worse and he should be fine after a good night’s sleep But, oh well.

Qwark waded his way through the crowds to the medical supplies he’d salvaged earlier that day. It had felt like a lifetime earlier, but… had it only been a few hours? Time was a confusing mess right now (if it hadn’t been to him before).

Qwark took another stim for himself, pressing the needle to his thigh and gritting his teeth; the doses were designed for Veldinites and he really should have taken two earlier in the first place. He pulled out a child’s dose for Ratchet (they were by weight and an adult’s would be too much at once, pride be damned), and hunted through the container for cough suppressant, finding canisters of acetylcysteine designed to be clipped into an oxygen mask, one fruit and and the other chocolate scented. He swiped both and rounded back to the heating vent on the floor, where Ratchet was still holding down the proverbial fort.

While Ratchet watched the tray through half-open eyes, he overheard some talk between the Sheriff and a few PD officers as they marched along the ranks of the refugees. Sounds like the flood waters have run as far as Asteroid City, which is pretty much on lockdown until the storms stop. The Sheriff whistles, grimly, when he hears the news. “Well, there goes the World Mining Expo, I reckon.” 

Ratchet sighed, knowing that the local economy is going to take a hit without the revenue from the annual miner’s convention, and turns over, hearing the telltale heavy footfalls of one native Kerwanian returning.

Qwark pushed his food tray aside and slumped down next to Ratchet, exhausted.

“Stim first. Just lay still.”

Qwark leaned over Ratchet, uncapped the needle end, and jammed the stim into Ratchet’s thigh, getting a facefull of tail poof as Ratchet’s reflexes kicked in. Ratchet did his best to hold still when Qwark delivered the medicine, but the pain of the needle prick made him flinch and his tail involuntarily whipped up to slap Qwark in the face.

“Sorry,” he mumbled after a groan, but Qwark simply batted it away.

Qwark counted to five and drew out the stim, the nanites in the medication immediately cauterizing the entry wound just as they’d done for him a few minutes prior. He capped the spent stim, and flipped the attached biohazard bag around it for disposal.

“Sit up, and take out your O2 mask, so you can take the cough suppressant, Ratchet.”

Qwark held out the canisters for Ratchet to pick. Ratchet weakly snatched the chocolate-scented cough medicine and fit the canister into his O2 mask. He’s had the fruit-scented one and it smells like ship wax, but in the worst possible way. After a few deep breaths, the prickling pain in his chest starts to fade and he can breathe much easier, without coughing.

“It’s no Meridian Grand Hotel, but there should be some prison holding cells in the detention wing of the center. It’s dark and quiet, and there should be bunks and blankets. Would you rather crash there?” Qwark shook his head. When was the last time he was this compassionate?

“Yeah, let’s check it out,” Ratchet replied, his voice muffled by the mask as he stood up, stiffly, twisting around. “Although they might already be holding some looters from Asteroid City in there.”

This turned out not to be the case, and indeed the detention wing was very quiet, and surprisingly warmer than the main hall.

‘ _That’s more like it’_ , Ratchet thought, shaking himself out and taking a few more gulps of chocolate scented air, before removing the mask.

Ratchet took a top bunk – he always feels more secure sleeping somewhere high up – and sits down, swinging his legs over the edge and scratching behind his ear as he looks down at Qwark. (That soap was made for Veldinite skin, and too harsh for really anyone else and it’s irritating him something awful. When he’s alone he’ll have to bathe the old-fashioned way unless he wants to lie awake in agony all night.)

“Hey, Qwark,” he finally said. “Listen, I owe you one. We all do.”


	4. Regroup

Qwark’s an early to bed early to rise kind of guy- it’s something he picked up living with cyclo-monkeys for parents. You just didn’t do anything after the sun set, really, other than hole up in a tree and snore.

So Qwark is out like a light on the lower bunk before he even hears Ratchet, dead to the world and snoring loudly.

He awoke early the following morning to his own O2 mask fitted over his head, shaking the crust from his eyes and yanking it off, tasting wax.

The other canister of cough suppressant had been screwed into the mask.

Qwark yawned loudly and went back to the main hall, carefully stepping over the sleeping refugees the best he could, noting the scattered police taking watch over everyone else in shifts. Qwark made his way to the washing area, and retrieved his and Ratchet’s clothes, freshly pressed and faintly warm. Qwark’s boots had not only been cleaned, but polished, too; he almost asked where Ratchet’s shoes had gone before realizing they’d sunk in Veldin mud, ready to be dug up by archaeologists in a few millennia time.

Qwark went into the shower room to change back into his own familiar attire, cracked his back, and carried the scrubs with him. Having a change of clothes that fit was a smart idea.

Rounding back to the main room, Qwark grabbed a tray and took square shaped oatmeal ration blocks- two for himself, one for Ratchet- hot water in foam cups, and packets of ‘cocoa’ (really chocolate flavored vitamin powder to mix into their drinks so that children would take it), as well as another foam cup of black coffee for himself. He’d never actually seen Ratchet drink coffee- if the lombax wanted some, he could get it himself.

Qwark deposited the tray on the desk in their bunk in the detention center, eating with gusto. The ‘dinner’ from the night before was hardly palatable, but the oatmeal squares were at least decent, and the coffee helped push him over. The ‘hot cocoa’ was actually quite good, even.

He mixed the powder for Ratchet and left the food on the desk with his clothes, before slipping out again.

Qwark nav linked with his ship, and was happy to note that it was safe to land on the roof of the PDC. He waded his way through the crowd again, eventually finding the stairwell to the roof. His ship was docked happily on the landing pad, the sun was shining… and the entire valley was a wet red slog of mud and water. The sky completely cloudless, Qwark looked out, down to the mesa below, and even some of the lower reaches of Kyzil plateau were… gone. Qwark spied Ratchet’s garage halfway up the plateau, intact and visibly unharmed (although that said nothing of whether or not there were holes in the roof from that range) but everything further down had been swept clean away. Millions of bolts of damage, easily, if not billions when counting foregone economic loss.

Qwark slapped himself and drew a breath. He could leave; this wasn’t his home, these weren’t his people.

He bit his lower lip and opened the ship hatch, pulling out a navy colored tarp and tossing it up over the backs of the pilot’s and copilot’s chairs behind him as a makeshift backdrop, patched in a commlink and steeled himself.

“People of Solana, Bogon, and Polaris.

Last night, at around twenty… twenty… let’s just say twenty hundred hours and leave it at that- a massive flood wiped out Asteroid City, and almost the entire Kyzil Plateau on planet Veldin. As far as we know, there are no casualties; evacuations occurred in time. However, the damage… my Presidential reporting says the entire area is under at least ten to twenty cubits of water, and the ground has turned to quicksand. Thousands, if not millions of people in the city and surrounding areas have lost their homes, businesses, and possessions. These people need food, boats, clothing, basic supplies, and most importantly- bolts. I will be putting my chief international affairs advisor in charge of coordinating donations, and I ask, if you even have a bolt to spare, there are people who could use your help. Polaris President Qwark, out.”

Qwark shut the transition, and not a moment later, received a call from Talwyn, head of the Polaris Defense Force.

“Qwark, how do you even know about the damage out on Veldin? We hadn’t even sent you your morning review- notthatyoureadthemanyway…”

“I’m here.”

“You’re…?”

“Ratchet asked for my help. I went as a publicity stunt, but it was already pouring hard when I got here. No camera equipment until this morning, and… I don’t know. It just seemed… wrong now, somehow, to use this to my benefit. Tell no-one I’m actually here unless they need to know. My ship is on the roof of the Kyzil PDC. I’m going to tether my ship’s HoloNet access for the PDC, since theirs is down. Have the telecoms bill me later.”

Talwyn closed her eyes and sighed.

“Okay, who kidnapped Qwark?”

“There’s hundreds of children with emergency blankets sleeping on the floor of what’s supposed to be a prison facility, Talwyn.”

“I… I get it. We’ll start organizing a bolt relief.”

Talwyn shut comms, and Qwark started up his ship, gunning for Ratchet’s garage.

He touched down, getting to see Ratchet’s old home for the first time… well, ever. The garage looked sound, and was large enough for a ship to dock, or a place to stock supplies, and was right above the largest mess below. Noting the garage had been locked and the shutters down, he’d offer to take Ratchet there when Ratchet woke up to grab his own belongings (at the very least, some shoes, and hopefully some shampoo for both their hair)… and start taking restoration strategy.

Because, as Qwark looked down at the damage… they’d need all the brains they could muster.

* * *

 

Ratchet was startled awake in the middle of the night by thunder and coughing, and of the two, the latter is definitely louder and shakes the bunk frame. Qwark is still in the lower bunk, coughing in his sleep – how can he sleep through that? Dazed, Ratchet climbed down, fumbled in the dark for the other canister of cough suppressant (the gross one, unfortunately), and twists it into Qwark’s O2 mask. “Sorry,” he mumbled as he fits the mask over Qwark’s face, and when he climbs back up he’s asleep again before his head hits the pallet.

His ears twitched as he heard Qwark leaving the detention cell in the morning, and he stretched and yawned. Then he grumbled under his breath. At least he’s well-rested now and the cough is gone, but he feels itchy and disgusting. That shower last night didn’t really do him any favors other than probably killing all the parasites he picked up from the floodwaters and mud. So he climbed out of the bunk, locks himself in the guard office, and strips down to take a very overdue real bath. Halfway through the bath, he heard Qwark return, but by the time he leaves the office, clean, dressed, and knowing full well he’ll probably suffer through a hairball tomorrow, the President is off again. By now, he’s probably hitching a ride back to Polaris and embellishing his tale about the quicksand with a War Grok or two.

‘ _Hey, be fair’_ , a voice in the back of his head chides him. He saved a lot of people last night. He’s doing a lot of good. Oh hey, and he left some breakfast.

Ratchet hurried through breakfast, threw back the powdered vitamins, and got back into his own clothes – his boots are gone, but he didn’t love those boots, so whatever. Before leaving the detention wing, he tried to make a call or two – Clank and Talwyn, no doubt, have heard about the flooding and he doesn’t want them to worry about him. But his comm link can’t find a signal. Looks like the storm knocked out the PDC’s HoloNet connection. That’s going to complicate relief efforts, for sure.

It’s a long time before he joins Qwark on the roof. As soon as he enters the main hall, a Defense Officer picks him out of the crowd and asks for help. There are a few speedboats in reserve that can be used to get the officers to Rorik, Geebo, and Asterioid City, or to pick up stragglers. But they can’t get them started, because the remote transponder that unlocks their ignition systems has taken water damage. It takes a lot of poking around in one of the boats’ engines, but finally Ratchet manages to hotwire them, and boats launch from the PDC within an hour.

Then he volunteered for a much more delicate task. Stragglers were arriving from the other settlements up the plateau, and the medical volunteers had to decontaminate them before allowing them to join the other refugees. This, unfortunately, involves needles, and the children in the survivor group are in a panic. Ratchet knows they need a distraction, and does like storytelling, and the children are so enthralled with his wild tale about how Clank once single-handedly defeated the Thousand Snarling Smeerps of Smeerpy Gulch with a flyswatter, that none of them even notice the injection that rids them of any harmful parasites.

He’s already tired when he marches up to the roof to take his first look at the damage. He’s been talking to his fellow refugees, and of course they all said it was bad out there, but that didn’t prepare him for the sight. His knees go slack and he just stares in dumbstruck shock. Kyzil is mostly gone – only the houses built high up on the rocks are left, and those look pretty battered. He can’t even see Rorik at all, and two spires are missing from the distant, familiar skyline of Asteroid City. The plateau is a lake, now.

To his knowledge, there’s never been a flood this bad in the F-sector.

Ratchet gritted his teeth and bashed his wrench against the metal rooftop, suddenly furious that he couldn’t get the barricade up fast enough. But the anger and self-blame pass quickly, because this is beyond any barricade that he and the volunteers could have put up. Even if they’d finished it, it would have been washed away. It’s a waste of time to think over what could and couldn’t have been done, anyway. All that matters is what needs to be done now.

He’s just about to head back downstairs when he realizes whose ship is docked on the other end of the roof, and who’s just climbing out of it.

“Hey.” He composes himself and crosses the roof to meet Qwark. “Are you going back to Polaris?”

“No.” Qwark patted his cherry-red ship and grinned. “I’m staying behind. But until the floodwaters drain out of the basin, we’re all kind of in a holding pattern, yeah? We can’t rebuild yet… But, hey. Hop in. I’m taking you on a little ride.”

Qwark hopped into the pilot’s seat, patting the copilot’s for Ratchet, and as soon as the airlock pressurized, Qwark shot off to space, rounding quickly to Kerwan. Ratchet doesn’t say much on the trip to Kerwan, because, after all that’s happened, there’s really not much to be said – unless it has to do with rebuilding. 

Quark landed not at either of their old apartment complexes (Ratchet’s in the tech district or Qwark’s in theater) or the PDC, but a ship park, flagging a hover taxi for travel within the city itself.

“Galactic Cross food bank,” he stated, and the platform shot off to the west district.

Ratchet, puzzled, just stood in the taxi with Qwark until they arrived. Qwark ordered the automated vehicle to wait while a few attendants came to meet them with crates. And more crates. And more.

“Dinner for tonight,” Quark explained with a groan, as he moved the crates onto the platform with Ratchet. “The food in the center isn’t any good for morale in the long run. I… I pulled a few strings. We’ve got Kyzil spiced barbecued frog and fired tubers for nine thousand. More medicines should be arriving from Novalis in a few hours, vitamins from Markazia… and…”

One of the attendants tossed a bottle at Ratchet, who’s more pleased about the shampoo than he lets on, when he catches the bottle with a bewildered stare.

“Cazar shampoo. We both need it. Come on. We have to bring this back to Kyzil before it gets cold. And, uh, I can pop you back to your garage if you need anything else?” Qwark shrugged his shoulders as the taxi shuddered back to life heading towards their ship.

“Hey. If we’re going to be refugees… We might as well try to keep some class, right? I’ll see about getting the kids some ice cream too.”

Ratchet still doesn’t say much until they’re back in the ship – there’s a lot to say and he doesn’t know where to start. It goes without saying that this is going to make the survivors back on Veldin a lot more comfortable. Qwark is putting on a really unexpected show of support. And it’s not just unexpected because he’s – well, Qwark, but because this would be a lot coming from any Galactic President. Encouraging donations would be one thing, but actually making them?

Ratchet buckles up, then fidgets. “Qwark, you really don’t have to stay.” He’s not trying to discourage him…just pointing it out. 

“No, I don’t have to stay. This isn’t my home, at least not now. I don’t know these people.”

Qwark snorted, and reached behind him in the ship for the cargo hatch as they landed, a bit too angrily.

“You know Ace Hardlight?”

Of course Ratchet nodded at this, but Qwakr had no idea that Ace and he had met on a more personal level.

“Yeah, when I was a kid, and my parents had died, Ace came to my orphanage. Made a huge show of it. Stayed the night when there was a tornado. We were all underground; but when the storm passed, Ace just laughed, called his ship, and left us. News went wild about him being in the area, and donations poured in to fix the pace up, but there was one thing that stuck with me.

Ace was an **_asshole_**.”

Qwark laughed, and picked up half of the crates with an easy swoop.

“You going to just stand there, or you going to help me move this stuff inside, cadet?”

* * *

Qwark stretched out on his bunk, satisfied after the meal. He’d never actually had Veldin style cuisine before, and cried throughout dinner from the heat. Ratchet must have an iron stomach, because for the first time since ever, he outpaced Qwark at dinner two-to-one on the frog legs. The Veldinites, especially the children, watched and laughed as the oversized Kerwan/Florana native tried to inhale his dinner, made worse when Ratchet smugly told him that the barbecue the food bank had made had been on the mild side, a statement agreed upon by the sea of small lizards watching Quark eat their planet’s food for the first time.

Qwark merely sputtered and swore that Veldinites had to be able to breathe fire after eating like that regularly. Ratchet shrugged, whistling innocently, before twiddling a bottle of hot sauce, pouring the entire contents on the rest of his meal, and finished like normal with a completely straight face (although one completely covered in sauce).

Ratchet looked like he’d eaten an entire raw bugbear, or fought off a War Grok with only his teeth. The kids laughed harder, and ate their own food, giggling, and turning to look at Ratchet and Qwark for the rest of the night.

After the pair had finished, and the first wave of relief supplies came in, Qwark looked up at Ratchet on the bunk above him, both still deciding whether to turn in early for the night.

“It should be safe enough now to do an aerial sweep. And… eh… seeing your night vision’s good- it is, right?- will you give me a hand checking for stragglers in the water… or… errr… casualties?”

A lump formed in Qwark’s throat. No dead had yet been found or confirmed, but there were still several thousand unaccounted for. A trickle of those who’d left on private ships and finally able to hail a shelter were slowly lowering the MIA numbers by the hour, but…

“We should also check out your garage. It looked still intact, has a landing pad, and is probably the best place to start organizing volunteers and supplies as the water drains. I can help you clean it out if it did flood inside… I mean, what am I good for, other than lifting things? Maybe breaking them. But, really.”

“Well, you’re good at keeping morale up, too.” 

Ratchet can’t say that with even a little bit of irony. It’s too true. Qwark may be a narcissist and a chicken and a jackass, but people love him, and people are probably always going to love him. 

“I mean, hey, think about it – those kids got meet Captain Qwark! And watch him eat spicy barbecue. At least they could eat it without crying.” Ratchet can’t hold back one last smile at the President’s expense. “You shouldn’t underestimate…you know, how much easier it’ll be for them to look back on this because of that.” 

In a small way, it even helped him. It took him, just for a few seconds, back to a simpler time, when Veldin was all he knew, and when Qwark was still a hero. Just for a few seconds, he felt like he was home again.

He hung on to that fleeting feeling as grabbed an O2 mask, and ordered a thermal scanner from one of the armory computers. He’s going to need that strength while they search for survivors. And casualties.

“Night vision’s okay, but my hearing is better.” The thermal scanner materialized on the console and he took it. “Try to fly low.”

* * *

 

Qwark pulled his own O2 mask from storage, sighing.

“My skiff’s not really meant for altitude flying. Not that kind of precision. You… don’t have Aphelion nearby do you? Can you radio her down? If not, we’re going to have to do it the old fashioned way; take out a pontoon and go for a swim with searchlights.”

Qwark shrugged. “Been a while since I’ve had an adventure. Up to you, really.”


End file.
